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“And work your way down column one, then back up to the top of column two? Or zigzag down the page?”
Armstrong pretended not to know that the jarhead was making fun of him. “Straight down, I think. If that’s all right with you.”
“Whatever,” Lewis said. “These clowns aren’t going anywhere. You want to start right now?”
“Ideally, yes,” Armstrong replied.
“Suits me. I’ll see if we have an interpreter available.”
Armstrong relaxed and watched the officer go through his pantomime. In fact, as he well knew, Camp X-ray always had interpreters available. It couldn’t function otherwise, with prisoners who spoke at least three languages aside from Arabic.
After another moment on the telephone, Lewis cradled the receiver, donned a tight-lipped smile and said, “I have a man you can use to get started this morning. Later on today, we’re jammed up pretty tight.”
“Where there’s a will….”
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
“Of course.” He didn’t feel like flexing any hidden muscles at the moment. If the jarhead still felt prickly around lunchtime, Armstrong would reach out and pull whatever strings it took to scorch his lazy ass.
“In that case,” Lewis said, “we’re just waiting for the interpreter. He’s coming over from the barracks as we speak.”
“That should be—”
Sudden rapping on the office door distracted him. The sergeant from the outer waiting room entered, flicked a distracted glance at Armstrong, then told Lewis, “Sir, we’ve had another…incident.”
“Explain,” Lewis commanded. When the sergeant looked again at Armstrong, the lieutenant added, “Sergeant, please speak freely.”
“Yes, sir. It’s another suicide attempt. One of the inmates tried to hang himself.”
“Which one?”
The sergeant looked down at his cupped left hand, where Armstrong saw a sticky note not quite concealed. “His name’s Hasam Khaled, sir. Just a nobody, as far as we can tell. One of the men on walk-through found him hanging in his cell and cut him down.”
“You said he tried to hang himself. How badly is he hurt?” Lewis inquired, sounding as if he didn’t really care much either way.
“Should be all right, sir. That’s the word for now, at least. The medics have him in sick bay.”
“All right. Dismissed.”
The sergeant wheeled around and left the office, closed the door behind him.
“Lieutenant,” Armstrong said, “I’d like to climb out on a limb here, and suggest a change of plans.”
“Not sure I follow you,” said the Marine.
“I’d like to reprioritize that list a bit.”
“Meaning?”
“I want to put a new name at the top.”
“Okay. Which one?”
“I’ll have my first chat with Hasam Khaled.”
“The loser who just tried to off himself?” Lewis seemed surprised.
“That’s right.”
“You mind if I ask why, exactly?”
As it happened, this time Armstrong didn’t mind at all. “He’s anxious to get out of here by any means available,” he said. “That tells me that he’s either cracked and lost his mind—or maybe, just maybe, has something to hide.”
AT FIRST, HASAM KHALED believed that he had found his way to Paradise, but then he felt the harsh pain in his neck and grimaced as his vision cleared. If this was Paradise, then the imam had lied and there was no reward worthy of sacrifice.
Before that sacrilegious thought could take root in his head, Khaled woke to the fact that he was still alive, apparently sequestered in the camp’s infirmary. He had accomplished nothing, other than inflicting needless pain upon himself.
Hoping the noose might have destroyed his vocal cords, he cleared his throat, then tried to speak. The words were hoarse and painful, but he heard them clearly, even though he whispered.
“Doctor,” someone said beyond his line of sight, “this one’s awake.”
“Good thing,” another voice replied. “I’ve got them breathing down my neck.”
Khaled was functional in English, but he still had trouble with its slang and idioms. Why, for example, would one person breathe into another’s neck, except for purposes of artificial respiration? And the second speaker clearly didn’t require such treatment, since he had ability to breathe and speak unaided.
Faces loomed beside his narrow bed, one man with a white coat over his uniform, the other garbed in the fatigues worn by all guards throughout the camp. Khaled had studied rank insignia for the Great Satan’s military forces, and he recognized the white coat as a first lieutenant, while the other was a corporal of the United States Marines.
His mortal enemies.
“Mr. Khaled?” The white coat peered into his face and raised a fist, the index finger pointed up. “How many fingers do you see?”
He had a normal hand. “Five,” Khaled said.
The white coat raised another finger, to create a V. “How many now?” he asked.
“Still five.”
“He’s yanking you, Lieutenant,” the corporal said.
“You think?”
Scowling, the officer informed Khaled, “You have some visitors. Their sense of humor sucks.”
Khaled did not attempt to turn his head. He’d let his enemies do all the work, while he focused upon resisting them.
A moment later, two new faces flanked his bed. One was a sergeant in his early twenties, while the other was a slightly older man, blond haired, wearing some kind of business suit.
The suit spoke first. “Hasam Khaled?”
Khaled didn’t respond. He was determined to say nothing, come what may. If later he was forced to scream, perhaps it wouldn’t count against him in the eyes of God.
“That was quite an accident you had,” the blonde remarked. The sergeant translated his words to Arabic.
What accident? He’d tried to hang himself. The only accident had been his failure to achieve that end.
“Escape attempts are frowned upon, you realize.”
Escape? Khaled concluded that the blond man was a fool, perhaps insane.
“It adds time to your sentence, get it? And you haven’t even had your trial yet. Honestly, Hasam, what were you thinking?”
That’s for me to know, Khaled thought, tuning out the voice of the interpreter.
“I’d like to help you, if I can,” the American said.
Then kill yourself, Khaled answered silently. It took an effort not to smile, but even thinking seemed to hurt his injured throat.
“Of course, I can’t do anything on your behalf, unless you’re willing to cooperate.”
Never.
“A few quick questions,” the blonde said. “Nothing earth-shattering, you understand. The basic sort of thing. Name, rank and what have you.”
The blonde was lying. Khaled smelled it on him.
“But if you won’t help,” the litany went on, “well…”
Here it comes. First threats, then pain. Khaled tried to prepare himself, but it was difficult, not knowing how his captors would torment him.
“I suspect,” the suit remarked off-handedly, “that you could use some medicine. Sergeant?”
“I’ll fetch the medic, sir.”
Briefly alone, the blonde bent lower, almost whispering. “If you can follow this at all, I really think that you should talk to me, without the needles. Once they start…well, hey, I never knew a doctor who could say, ‘Enough’s enough.’ Have you? Hasam? Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The sergeant returned with a different white coat, this one balding and grim in the face. The new arrival carried a hypodermic syringe half filled with milky fluid.
Hasam Khaled recoiled—or would have, if his arms and legs hadn’t been pinned by heavy leather straps. All he could do was wriggle, strain against the leather, as the medic with the needle swabbed his arm with alcohol, then spiked him.
Khaled was expecting pain, but in its place euphoria suffused his body. For a moment, he imagined they were killing him—some executions in America were carried out with poisoned hypodermics—but that made no sense. They couldn’t question him if he was dead.
No. They were lulling him with drugs, polluting him with chemicals to make him speak. Khaled determined to resist Satan’s technology at any cost, even if he was forced to bite his tongue and drown in his own blood.
That sounded like a good idea, but when he tried it, Khaled found his jaws unwilling to obey. In fact, the very notion seemed so silly that he nearly burst out laughing.
“Hasam? Earth to Hasam?”
The blonde was speaking once again, his translator echoing everything he said, like an annoying television sound track.
“Feeling better, Has, my man? That’s good. Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Business? I was never very good at business. You can ask my father. He will—
“What I need to know, first thing,” the rude blonde interrupted him, “is why you tried to kill yourself. Just tell me that, for starters, and we’re on our way.”
“Secret,” Khaled whispered, not realizing for an instant that he’d spoken.
Stop! Resist! Say nothing, in the name of God!
“Secret? Now we’re getting somewhere, Hassy. May I call you Hassy? Good. About this secret, now. What is it?”
Although Khaled had spoken English, the interpreter continued with his task.
“Too great. I must…not…tell.”
“We’re all friends here,” the blonde assured him, smiling like a sneaky thief. “You can tell me anything. Don’t be embarrassed. Hassy, I can promise you, I’ve heard it all.”
“Not this.”
“Surprise me, then. I’m always up for something new.”
Khaled could feel the smile form on his face. “You will know soon enough,” he said.
“Will I?” the blonde replied. “All right, then, but I’d like a little preview, if you don’t mind. What we call a trailer, in the States. A glimpse, to you. How’d that be, Hassy?”
Still Khaled resisted, but he couldn’t fight the drugs forever. Finally, weeping for shame and the inevitable loss of Paradise, he spoke a name.
CHAPTER ONE
Cocoa Beach, Florida
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, walked along a quiet, nearly vacant beach at sunrise. It was nearly vacant, since a beach bum and his lady had apparently camped out the night before, somehow avoiding the nocturnal beach patrol to plant their sleeping bags above the high-tide water-line. They were engrossed in each other as he passed, ignoring him, waking to yet another day of—what?
Good luck, he hoped, and wished them well.
A small crab scuttled out of Bolan’s path, chasing the white Atlantic surf as it retreated. In his short-sleeved shirt, Bolan was conscious of a chill wind off the ocean, but he trusted that the sun would warm him soon enough.
Right now, the chill felt good, a respite from the heat he knew was coming, guaranteed.
It was a rare day when he could escape the heat.
He’d spent the past two nights at the Wakulla Inn, taking a unit with a kitchen and more bedrooms than he needed, just to have the space. Two days of beachfront R and R had tanned him, while meandering along the main drag, two blocks from his pad, briefly immersed him in the tourist scene. He’d poked around Ron Jon’s and other surf shops, happily admiring the bikinis, scowling at the baby sharks and alligators slaughtered into knickknacks for the Yankee set.
And life went on.
But not for long.
That morning, he was meeting Hal Brognola, their connection arranged on Sunday evening via sat phone linkup from Stony Man Farm. Bolan hadn’t asked why Hal wanted to meet in Florida, instead of someplace close to Washington. It simply wasn’t done.
